Sleeper Cell
by Funky Tanuki
Summary: [Naruto AU] Naruto and the law don't mix. Maybe it's because he's a rookie thief. Then again, he did jump a detective for his car... Naruto and various others are about to learn what it means to fight for one's life. They have no other option but to live.
1. Greed

Sleeper Cell

Greed

He moved too much, and that was forcefully apparent when the stove hissed like a malevolent cat. Taking that as a divine sign, he set the large spoon down and let the noodles soften on its own.

The young man glanced disdainfully at the unfamiliar kitchen as he left to occupy himself in some other way. It was simply too _plain_ for him. Now if only the walls had posters of movie stars, or at least something _unique_ to mark itself as being its own individual. He realized a moment later that they were simply walls.

He sat on the couch in the living room. It was small, but he didn't expect much more from a cheap apartment, and, just like the kitchen, it was dull. As if it were trying to repent for the lack of grandeur, the couch was shockingly comfortable. However, a single glance at the brown, cigarette burned cushions reminded him why he had hated it so much when he first entered.

With a dispassionate sigh, he decided that his ramen must have become soft by now. As he rose from that deceptive couch, his foot hit against something with substance, and when it fell over, liquid sloshed against the sides like an artificial beach. The blonde plunderer, looked at the fallen spray bottle. Make that an artificial beach of chemicals.

He remembered the bottle of Windex; after all, he was the one who had left it there. The window was streaked from when he had wiped it with a paper towel, but at least it wasn't from the blood that was there. Another mishap to add to his list of failures in his entire unorthodox career, and he knew, regrettably, that there would be many, many more.

Without a further thought of that boring, reminiscent room, he answered the call of the bubbling and hissing stove. He sprinted simply because he didn't want to make his ramen wait any longer, and as he abruptly halted, his shoeless feet slid on the plain linoleum floor.

"That," he paused. "Was… so… cool!"

He was about to do it again–there was something so fascinating about sliding in that simple kitchen. It was as if _that_ was its redeeming quality–a special function that can only be performed in its mundane embrace, but he did recall why he had come into this atrociously unoriginal room. Ramen.

His perfectly formed blue eyes sharply made their way to the overflowing pot. Each time it gurgled, a miniscule stream fell over the pot's boundaries and landed on the guard. It hissed. It steamed. That is, until he turned off the stove.

As he grasped the sleek black handle, he scorched his hand from its intense heat. In all honesty, he was surprised nothing had become molten by this point. He cradled the injured hand against his chest and barely contained a whimper. Could this be divine justice for the murder of the man who lived here, he had to wonder, but then it struck him, since when was he religious?

He settled with using a cloth to shield his other hand from that burning touch, and poured the plain noodles and scalding water into a large, pristine bowl. To his disdain, there were no chopsticks…

Then a slightly bent fork will have to do!

He doused the center of the bowl with the artificial flavoring; it was like a mountain of wonderful scents. However, he soon used the aforementioned utensil to stir the epitome of his love, though in his words: ramen.

Soon, ever so soon, it transformed from that plain shade of noodle and the lucid texture of liquid into something more. The noodles became one with the powder, and the water became murky with rich–he looked at the package–chicken flavoring!

Somehow impervious to the torrid ramen, he consumed it with haste, and loved every slurp, every whip of the wet noodles, and every drop of it that went down his throat. As an afterthought, he realized that it didn't taste a thing like chicken. He could forgive that, however, ramen was his love.

He simply placed the empty bowl into the sink. It wasn't as if crime was uncommon in this area, and the people living here were not important so no one ever really cared what befell them. The small boy felt a twang of guilt but only that.

To each his own.

But now was the time for him to leave. There was nothing else useful for him in this barren world of a dead man.

He walked down the solitary hall, though he didn't think "hall" was a proper term. It was barely a foot and a half long with a bathroom in the middle and a single bedroom at the end. He paused before the bathroom door. The stench of decay entered his nostrils, causing him to flinch. Had he been here long enough for the body to decompose already?

He took a step forward. A breeze, suddenly, came from the small room to his right. It wasn't very strong, but it was tangible. In any case, it sparked enough interest in the fair-haired individual for him to gaze into the said bathroom.

It lingered on an open window just large enough for his small frame to fit through…

---

His eyes were narrowed now, unlike a moment before. They had been pallid, baleful–in her opinion–beacons staring blankly ahead, until that little red light blinked. He had closed them only to place the large headphones over his ears. Then they had opened once more, but they were not the same….

His eyes were narrowed now. She could not be sure whether it was sorrow or determination, but given the situation, her common sense told her it was the latter.

She had been taught from her seasoned grandmother, that one could see the soul of a person by means of their eyes, but this man's eyes appeared to be _soulless_ to her. However, she did mean to judge him, after all, she has only known the man for several days (and was quite thankful that he accepted her so quickly).

As he removed the headphones–after speaking a word of confirmation into a sleek microphone–his mysterious empty eyes closed for that expected, fleeting moment.

"Neji…," she allowed the question to linger in the cramped air of the car.

"You do as I say, _student_," he addressed her in his deep monotone voice. She knew what he meant underneath those words. He had authority over her, and he could ruin her chances at forming a career in this field if he put an effort.

He knew she knew he knew.

"Hyuga, sir, what has turned up?"

Yeah, he definitely knew. And she certainly knew it too.

"There might be some trouble," was all that he said.

She wasn't going to judge him Haruno Sakura had to reaffirm.

He pulled up the nondescript car into the guest spot accommodated by the domineering apartment complex. To her, it seemed bigger than most and rather run down. She began to muse if it could twist and contort in the breezes of the warm night.

It stood firm, in a beat up sort of way that was uniquely its own.

She was glad it hadn't rained for a while since she thought feet would be very prone to slipping of the smooth stone of the stairs. Nonetheless, she ascended and, for the first time, was quite thankful to be in the throes of a dry spell.

The detective halted in front of a simple brown door labeled "223" in thick, golden paint, and she honestly didn't think the colors went well together. Since the mediocre police decided to not stick around, the pair had to do the basic investigation on their own. How reliable.

He tested the door to see if it was locked, but, as the squeamish manager had said, the lock was busted and the door slid open with ominous creaking.

She flicked the lights on after fumbling for the switch. It seemed like a normal apartment–drab–but normal. Well, there was a bottle of Windex left out, but that wouldn't have been too peculiar.

It wouldn't have been too important if this were not a crime scene.

An unkind scent wafted through the air. The detective hurried down the only hall into the house, and she could have sworn she saw veins ready to rupture from the corner of his eyes. Could it be from agitation? If so, what was the cause?

She shrugged off the thought and followed suit.

He paused by what seemed to be the entrance of the bathroom, but she passed him with only a moment's hesitation. Her gloved hand opened the doorknob in parody of shimmering gold. It took a cursory glance to confirm what they already knew. "There's a body."

"And here's a culprit," he said from within the bathroom. The intern came in quickly after that statement. He knew he had seen something so miniscule from the corner of he eye, and, not shocking to him, he was correct. It was a small orange cloth caught within the clutches of a broken window frame. He picked it out with his own gloved hand, and showed it to the student.

The veins were not there, she confirmed. It must have all been in her head.

"What shall we do now," she indulged. If he understood the truth beneath those very words, which she was positive he did, she was treading on thin ice. Her desire to see if she could be regarded as a companion, a teammate seemed to outweigh her common sense. As she stared into those large, feral, and pupil less eyes, she could not find any fragment of emotion or soul.

He closed them, and she wasn't sure if he was thinking carefully about his response or not.

She knew he knew she new–the actual meaning of her very words.

He turned on heel to look out the window, perhaps? And she heard the faint sucking of him drawing in breath.

He was going to respond.

She definitely knew he knew…


	2. Kage

I forgot to say it before: I don't own Naruto.

Sleeper Cell  
Kage

"We are returning to the station."

She was found at a loss. Where was the message in that? Her ears had confirmed that he had stressed no words, and the sentence itself did not seem peculiar. Was he choosing to ignore her boldness? Could it have been possible that he hadn't caught on after all?

Sakura doubted it.

Neji, the detective, promptly exited both the bathroom and the pygmy hall, leaving Sakura to flick the white lever. The room became dark, and the hallway light seemed to radiate from the sudden darkness that engulfed the bathroom.

He waited for her outside of the niche labeled "233", and only turned to face her with a wave of his long brown locks when she pulled the bulky door shut. In that instant, he seemed to have taken a surreal, genteel light but in image alone.

He was still Hyuga Neji, a blank-eyed shrewd detective, inside and out.

She stared intrepidly into his eyes. If he chose to disregard her prodding, she would remain firm–there would be no aversiveness on her part. Disturbingly enough, it startled her that she could not see a pink haired reflection in his glossy, pearly eyes.

His intentions were made clear before she could ponder more of his numerous oddities. The detective tossed an ovular object from a pocket in his black suit, and she had to thank reflexes for catching it. Neji was about to turn, but he handed her a roll of high quality scotch tape as if he had forgotten it sooner. "The police seemed to have forgotten their job."

She began to wonder what else was stowed away in those delicate folds.

For the umpteenth time, he left her behind.

The student took that moment to examine the yellow roll. After pulling some of the length out, she believed she received his answer to her prior indulgence.

With a sigh of defeat, she set out to tape the obnoxious yellow crime scene strip across the desolate door.

She had been silently _ordered_ to the grunt work. Detective Hyuga proved to her that he was the professional, the ranking officer, and she was simply an inexperienced young woman leeching off of him. There was no way they were teammates. There was no way they were equals.

It made her cross. Of all the ways he could have shown this to her, he had to pick this blunt task to simply rub it in. He merely could have told her. But then, she has never remembered him ever being direct in matters of subtlety. Was not that an oxymoron?

The detective's black attire contrasted heavily against the simple white of his vehicle. She tried to keep herself calm in his presence, but her body, of its own accord, slammed the passenger door closed to vent that pent up anger. Her reaction surprised her. Was not she expecting him to treat her like this?

Neji ignored her obvious emotional discharge, and proceeded to usher the car down that lonely aisle of bleak simplicity. His seemingly invalid eyes balefully glared through the translucent Plexiglas.

The station was pinioned between large stonewalls that seemed to have consumed the single floored building with its sheer height, and those walls would seem even higher for those locked within the prison basement–that is, if they were able to see from the windowless hell.

Every time she looked at it, a cold feeling entered the pit of her stomach. It was a foreboding place. All it needed was creeping dark shadows and an eerie mist to obtain the ideal look of a haunted place.

He entered the heavy glass–probably bulletproof–doors as if the dark aura didn't affect him in the least. Once again, she had to wonder if it was all in her mind.

The shudder running down her spine proved otherwise.

There weren't many people this late at night (or early in the morning). So Neji, unsurprisingly enough, ignored the few that were researching on computer terminals and idly lounging by silent phones.

Sakura felt as if she didn't belong, but didn't want to be left alone with these unfamiliar sloths. It was more comfortable, in her opinion, to be around the detective with a streak of impudence than to be in the clutches of tired grouches. 

But she should have realized how hostile that opaque door was–that door with "Nara" etched boldly into a golden plaque.

Standing before the dark haired man's desk was a jumble of emotions for her. She had never met the head honcho before–he had some detailed excuse that she had long forgotten–and was quite surprised to find him so young. Even more uncharacteristic was his constant state of agitation seeping from his hard-set eyes protruding underneath lazy lids. His scrutiny matched that of Neji's but his was unmasked, and it hit hard.

She could just imagine the shadows of his wooden desk shifting into some gnarling monster, or at least, such a thing seemed logical in that hostile, hostile room.

"I would like to investigate the homicide and theft regarding Haven Apartment Complex further, sir." It was the first time she had heard Detective Hyuga be formal with anyone. Did this man and his turbulent room deserve such respect?

The young Nara folded his slender fingers against his stomach and leaned back in his pliable, enveloping chair. His perfectly shaped black brows fused together, and she was certain it was out of frustration rather than confusion. Unexpectedly, however, he let out an audible breath and resumed his previous position.

"I don't feel like dealing with this now, Hyuga. That area of town has always had a streak of crime–petty crime. It won't ever change so I'd prefer it if you'd focus on other tasks, but I'll send a more suitable person if you're still concerned."

If the shadows of the room didn't make her so nervous, she would have smiled. Maybe Nara Shikamaru–she remembered hearing his name spoken–wasn't as bad a person as she had originally thought. Nonetheless, she was glad when Neji merely nodded his head and found his way out of that welcoming door.

Sakura was right on his heels.

"You can leave now," the detective said silently. After he saw the smile that found her way to her lips, he continued, "Nara he… He's a difficult person."

She tilted her head to one side. What was he trying to say?

"There's much more to him than meets the eye, but I can assure you, there won't be anyone assigned to that case."

"W-what do you mean," her voice cracked.

"In his mind, nothing in that area can be accomplished. He only puts an effort to things that he is certain will be executed and ended cleanly. Just keep that in mind."

It was obvious to her. Something had to be done.

---

Even though the hall appeared to be devoid of activity, she felt the lingering gaze of eyes. As she knocked on the door it still remained, an emotion that bordered paranoia.

However as the inhabitant opened the door as wide as the chain lock would allow, she presented an indifferent front. The man's bloodshot eye darted across her features, and it was apparent by his tone of voice that he was not pleased. "What do you want?"

She cringed inwardly. His demeanor was less than appealing, but she knew that it was impossible for her to turn away from her task.

"I am investigating-"

The door slammed in her face before her sentence was even finished, and she could only seethe in anger at the infernal door labeled "224".

---

The blinds had been all drawn closed, and the only source of light in the cramped room came from a dull, overhead bulb. It was probably not strong enough for him to read one of the thick books dwelling in his large, musky shelves.

He was about to close his eyes, but he could not deny the twitch of a shadow, and he knew that he had not moved.

It only took him a second to grasp that it was his own elongated shadow, and in that moment, he was aware that he was unable to move. His body tensed under the strain of trying to move, and despite all of his efforts, he had not succeeded in moving a single centimeter.

That soon changed when the shadow on the wall began to stir–his body mimicked it. He clawed away at the patina on his desk, and he was sure his nails were going to peal off. Normally, he would have grimaced, but this wasn't a normal circumstance.

Periodically, he thought he might have heard something though it was so low, he could only hear two pronounced vowels…

..Ah...ey..

It didn't last long. He doubled over the desk the instant the shadow released its hold of him and began to breathe heavily. The dark haired man stared at the rough, tan scratches clashing against the dark sepia–it formed a word that was foreign to him…

_Kage_.

"What does this all mean?"

The shifting shadows that seemed to swirl around his own did not answer him.


End file.
